Doing the Devil's Work

by Bill Loehfelm

  Scales’s eyes kept flicking over to Maureen. She felt for the first time that he maybe recognized, and remembered, her. That’s right, motherfucker, she thought, it’s me, here to watch you go down in flames.

  “Don’t look at her,” Atkinson commanded. “Look at me. She can’t do anything for you. The whole rest of your life is with me. Me. What’s it gonna be?”

  “The guns,” Scales said. He hesitated.

  “Be special here, Bobby,” Atkinson said. “Be fucking extraordinary.”

  He glanced back and forth between Maureen and Atkinson. Atkinson let her silence do its work and Maureen followed suit, her heart thumping against her sternum. They were gonna get something, she thought. Something really good, something beautiful. Life-changing, career-changing shit. She could feel it.

  “Do not fuck with me,” Atkinson said.

  Maureen leaned forward, her weight on the balls of her feet.

  “I ain’t,” Scales said.

  “That trunk,” Atkinson said, “where did those guns come from?”

  “Some coon-ass cracker named Gage.”

  Maureen hiccupped. Atkinson threw her hands in the air. “And Gage is fucking dead. Literally a dead end. Holy Christ. You get more worthless by the second, Scales. I can’t stand it.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Scales said, panicking again. Maureen could tell he hadn’t known that Gage had been killed. “I didn’t fucking do it. I didn’t.”

  “Nothing, Scales,” Atkinson said. “You’ve given me fucking nothing but a headache. For this I got up at the crack of dawn. So you could pin your shit on a dead guy.”

  “Wait, wait,” Scales said. “Gage, he just one of the players, he a front. For some like crazy white-boy survivalist militia gang or whatever, from out in one of the other parishes. They was strapping up to fight y’all, is what he kept telling me. He used to talk all kinds of crazy-ass shit. I was like, whatever.” He shrugged. “Long as your money be green and I don’t hafta leave the house, or fuck with no cops myself.”

  Maureen thought of Gage’s shitty pickup, of the discount cigarette butts and fast food wrappers littering the front seat. How had he paid for the expensive jewelry and the custom Saints jersey he’d been wearing the night she’d pulled him over? Where had he gotten the cash to buy those guns?

  “People like that,” Scales said, wonderment in his voice, “I thought it was always niggers they hated, Klan and white power and shit, but these dudes, it was y’all they had it in for, they hate cops with a passion. Always fuck-the-government this and fuck-the-government that. They changing with the times, us having a black president, I guess.”

  Maureen thought of the faded and disintegrating wallet she’d found on Gage’s fresh corpse. Of the gun-dealer business cards and the gun-show receipt.

  “Where did Gage get the guns that he brought to you?” she asked.

  Atkinson turned and Scales looked up at her, both unsure which of them Maureen was addressing with the question.

  “All that weaponry,” Maureen said to Atkinson, “that shit costs money. Gage didn’t have that kind of cash. He’s not buying AR-15s twenty at a time without help. He may have been the deliveryman, he may have even bought the guns at pawnshops and gun shows, made the physical purchase, but someone else put up the cash for a stockpile like that, I promise you.”

  She had a name in mind, but couldn’t decide if she wanted to hear it or not.

  Atkinson turned to Scales. “All those guns come to you at once?”

  “They arrived a few at a time. More supposed to be coming. After that next gun show out in wherever-the-fuck outside the city, next month.”

  Maureen thought of Gage’s name on the federal watch list, of his criminal record. None of that would matter at the gun shows. No ID check, no background check, no purchase limit. Nothing needed but cash and connections and a handshake. Maybe the right tattoos, depending on who he was buying from. He didn’t look like a terrorist, not to the people who sold him his guns—he looked the same as them. He looked like any average harmless guy walking down Bourbon Street drinking a Hand Grenade or a Hurricane. She took a couple of steps across the room. “Why? Why get involved with those guys? Why let them use your closet?”

  Scales chuckled. “Why the fuck else? Like you said, cash money.” He looked around the room, as if looking for an audience to share his humorous disbelief. “Rent out my closet to a bunch of white motherfuckers out to kill cops instead of niggers for once?” He chuckled again. “Nigga, please. Where do I sign up? Are you kidding me?”

  “Who paid you?” Maureen asked. “Was it Gage?”

  “That broke-ass tweaker? He had nothing.” He shook his head, grinning. “Gage. That pussy. I heard his bitch stone robbed him blind ’fore he left for New Orleans. Took it all from him. That’s why he was hanging ’round town instead of going back to his fucking trailer park to wait for the next gun show. He was looking for her.” He chuckled. “He try to not show it, Gage, but she scare him, too. I don’t know how hard he was really looking. He told these crazy stories about her. But he a man, and she took him off.” Scales shrugged. “Can’t let that shit go, I guess.” He looked at Atkinson and Maureen, his eyes half closed, a smile lingering on his lips. “Bitches, man. White ones, black ones. Nothing but problems, all a y’all. Nothing but devils, doing the devil’s work, all a y’all. Man, all y’all do is ruin a man.”

  “Who paid you?” Atkinson demanded. “Who handed you the cash for keeping the guns?”

  “The guy who paid me is the same motherfucker that paid for the guns, the guy who owned that house you found me in.” Scales took a deep breath. “A big-timin’ white boy named Caleb Heath.”

  And there it was. Maureen’s heart, which had been pounding for what felt like hours, stopped. She could feel the blood drain from her face, the air burst from her body. Atkinson threw her the briefest glance. The name had surprised her, too. More than it had Maureen. She recovered faster.

  “Gage was all talk,” Scales said, “but Heath, he got juice. I could see that from the jump. He try to play it hard, try to play it street, he got this whole collection of ugly-ass, off-brand Saints jerseys. Man, but money like black, it don’t cover up and it don’t wash off, ya heard me?”

  Leaning closer to Scales, Atkinson said, “Now you’re making shit up. That fucking annoys me. Here I am trying to help you out. What makes you think I got the patience for this?”

  “I know that motherfucker,” Scales insisted. “He been in my house. Shit, he own that house, run-down piece of shit that it was. Part of the deal was I didn’t have to pay no rent. He handed me spending money, like I said. Cash money from his hands to mine.”

  Scales had picked up on the mood change in the room, Maureen could tell. He knew the weight of that name he’d dropped. He’d gained confidence from it, wanted to ingratiate himself and capitalize on the connection. He straightened in his seat, and then described Caleb Heath perfectly. He crossed his arms over his chest, self-satisfied. He again reminded Maureen of Drayton, changing tactics to match the mood of the room.

  “How else a broke-ass nigga like me gonna know a rich-ass white boy like that, unless he doin’ dirt? I know that. Y’all know that, ya heard?” Scales shrugged. “Just another white boy who wants to be gangsta. Nothin’ new. City full of ’em. Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

  Scales had a point, Maureen thought. No way he had picked Caleb Heath’s name out of thin air. He was a scared and cruel punk scrambling under heavy pressure, selling out someone he did business with, someone he resented and had never liked or cared about.

  “Who’d you meet first?” Atkinson asked. “Gage or Heath?”

  “Gage,” Scales said.

  “Tell me about your first date,” Atkinson said.

  “I get a text, see, from my boy Shadow. He tell me to go by the daiquiri place by Claiborne and Louisiana, the one by the check-cashing place, at a certain time and all that. So I do it. I’m thinking maybe he got some new girls wi
th him or something. Shadow there, but he ain’t with no girls, he with this skinny white dude named Cooley, belt buckle as big as his head. We make the arrangements. I started out dealin’ with him, but then this other white dude, Gage, I think he was Cooley’s boss or whatever, stepped in. What the fuck happened to Cooley, I don’t know. So if he dead, too, that ain’t on me.”

  “What was this gang called?” Maureen asked.

  “The Watchmen Brigade,” Scales said, rolling his eyes. “Corny, right? Motherfucker talked about it constantly. Gage, he’s hard-core into it, this militia thing, tells me over and over that there’s an army comin’, a war comin’, they got money, they got guns, and I need to pick the right side.”

  An army was coming, Maureen thought, and Caleb Heath had their guns and their hideouts waiting for them.

  “I’ll hold the guns,” Scales said, “babysit the stash in one of Heath’s houses, and guys will come get the guns from me. When that happens, I’m supposed to give them up, no questions asked. I get paid for running the warehouse. Maybe get some smaller pieces to sell off on the side. Gage come by with a couple of guns at a time. Sometimes Heath was with him, sometimes not. I don’t think Heath needed to be there, but he liked to be, you know? Maybe him being the landlord covered for the other white-boy traffic in the neighborhood. Like I tol’ you. Maybe it made the boy feel gangsta. Made his dick hard, I guess. The rest, you already know.”

  Maureen listened to Atkinson’s heavy breathing. She knew the detective wondered how much to believe, and what to do about it. With each new name, with each new lead, the case got more problematic, not less.

  “Are there more houses like yours?” Atkinson asked. “Do the Watchmen have stashes around the city?”

  Scales shrugged, getting bored now. “Fucked if I know. I don’t ask, they don’t tell.”

  Maureen was sure that in Scales’s mind, no harm awaited Heath, rich and protected as he was. He thought he’d gained the upper hand by dropping that name. In his mind, he knew who and what he was to the cops—a black kid who fucked with other black kids in his run-down black New Orleans neighborhood, which made him not of much value to the NOPD. Who he was was worthless, but what he knew made him valuable. He figured feeding the white powers-that-be one of their own would stop any case, any investigation dead in its tracks, which would protect him, as well. The cops would choke on the Heath name and money, and have to spit out Heath, and Scales with him. And it would be back to business as usual for everyone in a few days, Scales, Heath, and the NOPD. Maureen swallowed hard. Heath and the NOPD would get back to business, but Scales? He’d be gifted to the cops by the Heath family like a tip slipped without a word into the valet’s hand. He’d be a consolation prize. Unless the Watchmen got to Scales first for ratting out one of their moneymen. Scales was done, Maureen thought. Done. In jail. On the street. Didn’t matter. He was done. A dead man. The finality of his fate, the certainty of his death, came so clear to her, so sure, that the idea’s arrival made a snapping sound inside her brain that she could hear, like the breaking of a bone somewhere in her body—the difference being what she felt. Not panic, not pain. Nothing.

  She watched Atkinson pace the small room, hands on her hips. Atkinson rolled her shoulders, working a kink out of her back. Even after this long interview, Maureen thought, Scales didn’t know who he dealt with in her. She was a cop and a woman. He could never see her for real. He didn’t comprehend the Heaths, and he didn’t understand Atkinson. But Maureen did. She understood them both. Atkinson was another fatal flaw in Scales’s plan. With her in charge of the case, there was no chance of anything going away. Atkinson didn’t choke; she broke bones. Atkinson would never bend to political pressure, from inside or outside the department. Never. Maureen couldn’t see it.

  Nobody, she thought, not Bobby Scales, not Caleb Heath, not Maureen Coughlin, would get off easy when this mess was done. She knew something else, too. Something that Atkinson didn’t know. The clock was ticking.

  Word would get out that Scales was in custody, not only through his neighborhood, but through the police department, too. Word would spread around the Sixth and reach Quinn. That meant Caleb Heath would hear before long that a detective had Scales in a box and was sweating him. That a big stash of guns had been found. Forces would align to protect Heath. Who knew how deep into the department Solomon Heath could reach on behalf of his only son? Who knew who Solomon could squeeze? Maureen didn’t want to know, didn’t want to end up in the grip of those soft and spotted hands.

  “Do you know if Shadow set up other meetings like the one between you and Gage?” Atkinson asked.

  “Like I already said, I don’t know.”

  “Where do we find Shadow?” Maureen asked.

  Scales chuckled. “Don’t nobody ever know where to find Shadow. He just appear.”

  “Are there men out there right now hunting New Orleans cops?” Atkinson asked. “Are there more stashes of guns?”

  “I don’t know,” Scales said. “I swear on my mother. I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  Scales thought for a long moment. “I mean, if I was them, I wouldn’t have one stash house for my gear, you know? If it gets hit, you outta business.”

  “You hook them up with anyone?” Atkinson asked.

  Scales shook his head. “I don’t know no one in the game like that no more. They came to me. I wasn’t even looking. I was trying to lay low. Trouble just find me.”

  “Everything,” Atkinson said. “I have to have everything you know.”

  Scales nodded his head. “Everything. I don’t know what else there is, though.”

  Atkinson turned an empty chair around and sat with her arms draped over the back. Intertwined with her fear, Maureen felt an admiration for the woman that bordered on worship.

  “Talk,” Atkinson said. “Now. About whatever comes to mind. When I want you to stop, I’ll tell you.”

  24

  Maureen held out her coffee cup, which Atkinson filled. They were in the break room. Scales had been taken away. She hoped he didn’t end up on Theriot’s watch. Maureen’s right hand ached. She had filled half of her flip-top notebook with the Scales interview after it ended. Her head spun from what she’d heard. Atkinson was eager to get moving on the information. Maureen wanted her to have everything she needed. What Scales had told her was not enough. Maureen had things to say as well.

  “Is there some place private we can talk?” Maureen asked. She wanted to be away from the interview room. The thought of Atkinson bearing down on her like the detective had on Scales terrified her.

  She wished Atkinson hadn’t seen her face when Scales dropped the name Caleb Heath. She was grateful no one had been watching behind the glass, either, which she had known going into the interrogation. Atkinson had used the statutory rape accusation to get the warrant cut by the judge, glossing over the fact that Scales’s accusers had only come in to give up his location and didn’t intend to file charges. A good job of putting opportunity to use, Atkinson had declared. A gifted bit of gaming the system, Maureen had thought, with admiration for the idea, and gratitude for what they’d learned after the bust.

  Maureen thought again of the thousand in cash sitting on her kitchen table. It had been meant for a moment like this one. She’d be expected to intercede on Heath’s behalf. Maybe let it slip to the right ears that there’d been some sleight of hand behind the Scales warrant. Well, Solomon Heath was going to be pissed. Maureen planned on being the worst investment he had ever made. She wasn’t concerned for him, or for his terrorist of a son. But she did worry for Preacher, and for herself. She loved being a New Orleans cop.

  “You don’t look very good,” Atkinson said. “You all right? It takes a lot out of you, this stuff.”

  “I didn’t sleep well last night,” Maureen said. She sipped her coffee. “I was excited about this morning. I dreamed about it last night. I’m really grateful to you for including me.”

  “You did a great job a
t the house, and especially in there, with the good cop, bad cop stuff about the jail rumors,” Atkinson said. “You played it perfect, better than we talked about.” She sipped her coffee. “You may have a future as the good cop.”

  Maureen gazed into her coffee. It was lukewarm and weak, hardly darker than tea. Her hands shook. Exhaustion, she figured. Residual adrenaline. Fear. She had to come clean about Gage to Atkinson. She would. Today. In the next few minutes. The question was how best to do it.

  “Was I really the good cop?” she asked. “I threatened him with jailhouse rape. Seems like it was more like bad cop, worse cop.”

  “You did what was necessary,” Atkinson said. “A lot of these guys, the ones who crack, they get pathetic. They’re soft on the inside. They get needy and desperate and they want their mommies. Don’t let that fool you. That man in there is a murderer. You know it, I know it, and he knows it. If he thought he could get away with it, right this minute he’d stick a screwdriver in your ribs first chance he got. He’d do the same to me, and to your buddy Marques. He tried.

  “We were playing a role in there, and so was he, and we played ours better than he played his. Forgive yourself for being smarter than him.”

  “What happens to him now? Will we ever put Mike-Mike’s murder on him?”

  “I’ll lock him up on the guns.” Atkinson scratched at her scalp. “May as well. There’s no hiding him from the feds. We have to give him up, for the greater good. Besides, they’re gonna take him from us. This whole case is going to go federal. It has to. He’s got info on domestic terror, on gunrunning by federal fugitives.”

  “He won’t even do any time, will he?” Maureen said. “The feds will cut him a deal.”

  “It’ll take a while,” Atkinson said. “Who knows what can happen while they work everything out.”

  “But, ultimately,” Maureen said, “he’ll walk. He’ll be hanging on a Central City street corner in no time. I’ll be arresting him for the rest of my life.”